The Battle for Houston...The Aftermath (24 page)

Washington looked peaceful and empty. The buildings for several blocks around Capitol Hill and the White House had been cordoned off since June and many locals had headed out to live with family and friends outside the capital. It was not a pleasant city to live in any more. Little food and thousands of military patrols made a peaceful life in the capital city non-existent. The whole country had been under martial law since May and, Washington, D.C. was the worst hit area.

One by one the helicopters landed to drop off their passengers and took off once their cargo was out of the way. Soldiers on the ground helped show the incoming guests where to go and soon the pleasant cool of air-conditioning could be felt as they entered the building from the gardens.

Preston now had air-conditioning in all of his buildings as well; two of his Mann diesel engines had been returned to him with several military HVAC systems and, with the 5,000 gallons of diesel in his one underground fuel tank still intact, he and Joe had installed the systems just before the heat pounced at the end of June.

“I’ve always wanted to tour the Capitol,” Martie commented to Preston as they entered the cool of the building. They both were helping Carlos who was looking for Sally; both of his wounds, although only flesh wounds, needed more time to heal.

“I did once, with my father, as a young kid. Think I was five, but I remember everything about our tour,” replied Preston walking into and remembering the Rotunda. “Just as I remembered it, Martie. Do you know several presidents have lain in state here? Gerald Ford and Ronald Reagan were a couple of them.”

“I do know my history, Professor Strong,” replied Martie gazing up at the ceiling and taking in the massive area. “I can’t remember if President Reagan laid here in the Rotunda, or in another part of the building, but I remember watching people walk pass his coffin on television. The Rotunda is magnificent!”

Mo Wang and Lee and his family finally found them and they all happily greeted each other, and wandered around the building and until slowly, they were ushered into the House Chamber. Now, history really reached out to Preston. How many “State of the Union” speeches had he watched on television coming from this actual room? It was big. He looked up and noticed that the second level was empty of people, apart from dozens of military personnel.

“This must be the first time so many members of the public filled this room,” Preston whispered to Martie as they were seated in the third row from the front and, as always, with people they knew. Mo Wang and then Beatrice sat on Preston’s other side and looked around. Carlos had disappeared with his bodyguards; a colonel had come to escort him to an earlier meeting.

Bogotá, Colombia – July

Thirteen military aircraft flew south on a warm July afternoon, three weeks before the Washington meeting. Carlos was flying his open-door DC-3 at high cruise, just keeping up with the seven refurbished Colombian Air Force AC-130 gunships with
Easy Girl
leading the way.

Three hours behind them were another twenty-four U.S. Air Force C-130s full of U.S. Marines; two thousand men ready for a fight.

The seven Colombian gunships were also full of men and ammo. Twenty-five members of Seal Team Six were in two of the gunships, recently renovated in the U.S. One of the AC-130s was full of the promised Miniguns, over one hundred of them, and the other one full of other bits and pieces Ambassador Rodriquez had requested, as well as several 80-mm mortars.

An hour ahead of the gunships were the twenty Zhi-10 Chinese Attack helicopters flying in formation, also at 10,000 feet, and with three HC-130 fuel tankers in attendance, ready to juice them up. They would make Colombian airspace before midnight, and they were all due to head into Santiago de Cali’s International Airport, where the ambassador’s brothers were ready to meet them.

The 747 transporter was due to leave Andrews later in the day and fly a belly-full of equipment into the same airport in Cali at about the same time; the city’s international airport’s tarmac was just long enough to take the massive beast. Inside the transporter were airport radio beacons, aircraft directional equipment from Michael Roebels, radios, several of the old Amiga computers as well as more mortars, bombs, and ammo for the Miniguns and pallets of projectiles for the new AC-130 gunships.

With twelve tons of ammo onboard, Carlos was glad he wasn’t flying the monster into Colombian airspace; if hit by a missile the loaded 747 transporter would light up the sky for hundreds of miles.

The ambassador sat contently in the DC-3 with Carlos flying and his father sitting in the co-pilot’s seat. Behind them sat Uncle Philippe’s four bodyguards, Mannie, Manuela, Dani and Antonio, and five of Seal Team Six. The Seal Team members were all Spanish speaking and had captured the Calderón brothers. Carlos and the two older men had enjoyed the intricate details of how the brothers had been hoodwinked.

The three brothers were at the back of the aircraft, bound and in a tarp-covered steel cage. They looked tired and haggard after their capture, and not very comfortable with their arch-enemy, Ambassador Rodriquez, sitting twenty feet away from them.

The DC-3 and all the other aircraft were on auto-pilot and the open door at the back of Carlos’ aircraft gave them a nice cool breeze which flowed through the aircraft. At 10,000 feet the temperature was only 10 degrees or so cooler than the sea below them, currently at 80 degrees. The captives had been told that if a noise was heard from them, out their cage would go, without a parachute.

“So, Uncle we are going to get the Calderón family once and for all?” asked Carlos taking a sip from a thermos of hot Colombian coffee. “We must have really decreased their forces in Houston. Senator Calderón must have very few soldiers left.”

“He is as slippery as a snake,” replied Uncle Philippe. “I know that the men his sons had fighting with them are not the same men the old man has as protection. I’ve heard that he always has a couple of thousand men in secret locations around Bogotá when he is in the city. I have often thought of accidentally having a fight with his men, but not having much proof that he has ever done anything wrong or illegal, I‘ve always let him be. During the time they are not needed in Bogotá, his men live in the mountains and cannot be easily flushed out by usual methods. Many lives would be lost if our men went in to get them in and around Florencia, where they normally stay when Senator Calderón is out of the country. He only spends a few months every year in Bogotá, and only when the government is in session. I’ve often tried to put a tail on him, or try to follow him to see where he holes up when he’s not in the city, but he always goes through Venezuela, and he becomes invisible in that country.”

“Will he be in Bogotá when we arrive?” asked Carlos checking his aircraft’s panel gauges and looking at the other aircraft a mile or so in front of them in a very loose formation.

“Should be,” Uncle Philippe replied. “I have convened an emergency meeting of Parliament. Parliament is always in session at this time anyway, from the end of May to mid-June, just before the summer break, and an emergency meeting of the government means that every government official should be there, whether they like it or not.”

“Should be an interesting meeting,” added Carlos’ father. “Have you a plan of action yet, Philippe?”

“No, not yet, but I have one good idea forming. I just need to know that the senator is in town and then have our men and our allies who are flying with us, the Marines, position themselves around the governmental buildings, and position our new gunships in the air above; then, when his men attack, we are ready for them. I hope by taking all our U.S. friends into Cali after dark we will deter any radio or road messages getting to the old dog. My brothers have men clearing the buildings around the airport and setting up police roadblocks and army checkpoints on all the roads between Cali and Bogotá. If they try to tell him that we have arrived, I’m hoping we block the move.”

“Do his bodyguards have good weapons?” asked Carlos.

“The very best,” replied his uncle. Money was no problem for this man. At one time he was supposed to be worth over one billion U.S. dollars. We know that he has another army of men on San Andrés, the island he normally calls a stronghold. That is why the admiral and his three frigates are going to visit there tomorrow. We have 3,000 of our own loyal men, Colombian parachutists; ready to go in tomorrow and that should equal his men on the island. Luiz has always wanted that island; it was his wish when we were young boys. I told him not to flatten the Calderón estate or the main town, El Centro, with his frigates’ guns, and he could take it as his own.”

Two hours later, dusk arrived from the east as a black stripe of the coast was seen on the horizon; the pilots had already found the faint airport radio frequency from Cali’s main radio station on their directional finders. It was all they had to direct themselves into the Alfonso Bonilla Aragón International Airport until the usual Colombian Kfirs, their now fully operational fighters, a dozen of them this time, came up to greet the incoming aircraft. They had to use the international airport this trip as all the protection was needed while the 747 transporter would be unloading in about 12 hours’ time. Everything else needed for fire fights was in the cargo holds of the aircraft they were flying in.

With all aircraft engines on full power, and after climbing to 17,000 feet, they swept into Colombian air space with the formation of fighters around them; any higher and everybody would need oxygen. The pilots hoped the people on the ground would not hear the engines of dozens of aircraft above them.

Only on final approach, and with a five-mile line of aircraft, did the civilian airport’s landing lights come on. They were the only lights allowed at the airport.

Carlos brought in his aircraft with the VIPs aboard second,
Easy Girl
going in thirty seconds before him. He could just see blackened remains of several buildings around the outside perimeter fence as they came in. This was his first visit to this locked down international airport. His last take-off had been at the military airfield several miles away.

“Philippe, it’s so good to see you safe,” General Miguel Rodriquez hugged his brother before hugging Carlos and his father. “Carlos you have been in the wars since we last met, I’ve been told,” the general stated slapping him on the back and hugging him. “I’m going to have to employ you in our armed forces one of these days.”

As the other aircraft came in to the heavily defended airport, the VIPS moved towards the safety of the command center.

Here,
bocas
and wine were ready for the visitors. The other brothers, apart from the admiral, Luiz Rodriquez, were all here ready for the visit: the always jovial Colonel Alberto Rodriquez, who was in charge of the Colombian Special Forces—Carlos had not been told this on his last visit—and, Commandant Alvarez Rodriquez, who was third-in-command of the country’s police force

“We have two days before we must get you into Bogotá, Philippe, what do you want to do?” his younger brother Miguel Rodriquez asked once the last aircraft was on the ground.

“Unload your gifts from the American people, get all of our aircraft safe, and most importantly, get the 747 transporter out of here tomorrow night once she has been unloaded and reloaded,” replied the ambassador munching on a snack.

“We have ten tons of pineapples and mangoes, ten tons of prime unfrozen Colombian beef, ten tons of fresh vegetables and a ton of coffee ready to be loaded. Can this aircraft take all that?” Police Commissioner Alvarez Rodriquez asked.

“She can handle up to thirty-two tons on this length of runway and such a short flight, Uncle Alvarez, so there also will be room for dancing girls and a rumba band,” joked Carlos. “I have a plan. Can Colombia deliver a 32-ton load of food, meat, and produce once a week in return for new electrical parts and arms from America?”

“It will take a few weeks to set it up, but I think Colombia could manage that pretty easily. Who is going to eat our food?” Alvarez, who seemed to be the brother in the know, replied. “For supplies of aviation fuel, we could do this once a day if you wish, as long as the transporter doesn’t use our valuable jet fuel on this side.”

“The aircraft will fly into North Carolina and then Andrews Air Force Base on this flight and off-load half its load at each stop,” replied Carlos. “The food will go into the main food distribution system. If you could find more coffee, or just make up 32-ton loads, then at least she will fly out full every time. She won’t need refueling when she comes in later tonight. I’m just worried about a rocket or missile going up to meet her while she is in Colombian air space.”

“We have 20,000 of our men within a ten-mile area around this airfield, and they have been in position for a month now. I feel it will be very difficult for our enemy to be in the area. Our plan is to have a fifteen-mile area cordoned off soon and only allow the local inhabitants in. We are even thinking of building a new and secret air force base in a very rural area south of here and actually make it no-man’s land for a twenty-mile area,” added General Miguel Rodriquez. “I’m sure whatever you send us will be valuable enough to build this new Air Force base. What other aircraft do we have incoming tonight? I need to make sure we have enough Kfirs up there as protection, and also enough accommodation for your American Marines.”

Carlos told him about the twenty gunships, three tankers and second flight of C-130s with 2,000 Marines aboard, and the general’s eyebrows rose at the mention of 20 Chinese incoming attack helicopters. Carlos could see his mind working.

“Don’t get any ideas about the Zhi-10s,” he stated smiling. “I had to get on my knees and beg to borrow them for this operation and if any are shot down, I’d better take you up on that job offer, Uncle.”

“Sounds good to me,” the general smiled back. “We win both ways.”

“By the way, I would like to introduce you to a few friends of mine,” Carlos continued. “General Rodriquez, may I introduce you to some men who have been here often, mostly to Medellin and Bogotá helping you with your undercover battles,” and Carlos introduced his uncle to the Seal Team members who had captured the Calderón brothers.